NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honeyTill the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters assertedCold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreathsStruggled together like foe in a burning city. Behind him,Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chairLaughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresserCaught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before himSang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated,Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man’s song, and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.“Welcome!” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,“Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settleClose by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curlingSmoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleamsRound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.”Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:—“Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled withGloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.”Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—“Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsRide in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against us,What their design may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandateWill be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean timeMany surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.”Then made answer the farmer:—”Perhaps some friendlier purposeBrings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.”“Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said, warmly, the blacksmith,Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:—“Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S

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